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Poppy had a very full day. She jumped. She hummed. She spun around. Now the sun was turning soft and gold, so the den grew warm and still.
“Time for sleep,” Poppy said softly. She reached for her striped scarf — but it was gone! “Oh,” she said. “Where did you go?”
Poppy checked behind her big clay pillow. No scarf. But she found a little dried flower, so she tucked it gently behind her ear.
She lifted the blanket. She looked underneath. Still no scarf. Poppy felt a little worried, because the scarf was her cosiest thing.
Poppy sat by the window. The moon was out — round and quiet. Its gentle glow fell soft across her face. She breathed in. She breathed out.
Then she saw it. The scarf was curled beside the lamp, warm in the amber light. “There you are,” she whispered.
Poppy wrapped the scarf around her — soft, cozy, hers. She yawned a slow, round yawn. The room felt quieter now.
She climbed into her bed-nest. The blanket was warm. Her eyes felt heavy. The lamp glowed dim and gentle.
“Goodnight, moon,” Poppy whispered. The moon shone back. Hush. Hush. Hush.
Her eyes grew still. Her breathing slow. Poppy slept.
She dreamed of soft green meadows. Warm. Quiet. Safe.
